I love you, but goodbye
by TheWeightOfEmptiness
Summary: Sherlock's been in an accident. John has to deal with what life would be like without the love of his life.
1. Chapter 1

John was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed with his folded hands between his knees. Tears were rolling down his face. He had gone through the body-shaking, heaving sobs already and now he was sitting passively letting the drops fall onto his trousers. Of course, there had been a time at the beginning when he hadn't been able to cry at all.

That day he had been in the surgery, just doing his job, thinking about what he and Sherlock would order in for dinner that night. he was finishing with a patient when he heard his name over the intercom.

"Doctor Watson, please come to the third floor nurse's station as soon as possible." He said good by to his patient and ran out of the examining room, full tilt up the stairs. It wasn't an emergency center, so he rarely got paged like that. He had no idea what it could be.

When he got to the desk, there was already a doctor there, someone he didn't know.

"John Watson?"

"Yes. What can I help you with?"

"We found your, uh, well your friend was brought in and he had your name on his emergency contact paperwork."

"My friend?"

"Yes, a man named Holmes. Sherlock Holmes?"

John's brows furrowed and he stared at this strange new doctor, not quite hearing what the man was saying.

"Wait, what? You have Sherlock?"

"Yes. He's a friend then?"

"He's my husband." The doctor's face fell. John knew this look; it was the one he gave patients when they were about to hear something life-changing, earth-shattering. "Where is he? What's happened?" A nurse reached out and touched John's arm.

"John, you need to stay calm. Dr. Robertson will take you to him now." John wrenched his arm out of her grasp and turned to face her.

"I'll do whatever I damn well please and I damn sure want to see my husband now!" He knew that yelling wouldn't make the people do what he wanted, but it made him feel better. He reached over the counter grabbing at files, searching for the right one.

"John! John!" The nurse grabbed both his wrists in her small, but surprisingly strong hands and stared right in his eyes. "He just got here! There's no file yet. You have to talk to Dr. Robertson." John stared back at her, every muscle in his body tense. He pulled himself out of her hold and turned, straightening his shirt and standing to face the other doctor.

"I want to see my husband and I want you to tell me what's wrong with him. Now." He was no longer yelling, but commanding. John didn't get this worked up often—only with Sherlock—so everyone around him started hurrying to make sure he got what he wanted. Dr. Robertson didn't respond so quickly. He put his head down for a moment then lifted it and spoke to John in the same steely tone.

"I will take you to see him, but you are going to need to hold yourself together. You can't upset him. Understood?" John nodded. "Now, your husband was in an accident." John looked in the doctor's face with concern and confusion. _What kind of accident could he have gotten into? He was so careful. Well, not all the time._

"What kind of accident?"

"It was an explosion. The initial reports say it was a gas main, but the police are investigating."

_Of course they're investigating_, John thought, _someone's gone and blown up their number one resource_.

"And what's his condition?"

"He was in a cab and the nose of the car was right over the blast. The car flipped into the air and fell hood-down onto the pavement. The explosion started a fire, but somehow Sherlock scrambled out of the car before it hit the gas tank. The cabbie wasn't so lucky."

"Dead?"

"Yes. And Sherlock's on his way." John felt like his heart was gone. Not stopped, not dead, simply disappeared leaving a large and useless hole in his chest. He gripped Dr. Robertson's shoulder and leaned over, breathing heavily.

But there were no tears. There was no realization, so how could there be tears? After a few moments, John collected himself and stood, not bothering to straighten his shirt this time.

"I want to see him." Dr. Robertson nodded and turned, indicating that John should follow. He did.

They walked down the hall, but passed only a few doors. Sherlock must have been in a serious condition to be kept so close to the nurse's station. When they walked into the room, John saw that he was right.

Sherlock was lying on a hospital bed, almost every bit of his skin wrapped in bandages. His left leg stuck out in a splint and even his face was covered in a thin layer of gauze. John dropped to his knees next to his husband's bed and put his forehead to the blanket.

"Be careful not to touch him, Dr. Watson."

"John." There was a pause. "If you're going to stand there and tell me my husband is dying, you're going to call me John." He turned to look the other doctor in the eye.

"Of course. John." The doctor's voice was heavy. He knew what it was to tell a doctor that someone he loved was dying and nothing could be done. The man would be feeling lost and utterly helpless, his only lifeline snatched away.

John had turned back to Sherlock, lying there still and silent—making no deductions, cracking no jokes.

"He has burns over about forty percent of his body, that's what we're most worried about now."

"That's high. Unservivable?"

"It is high. We don't know. It's usually fatal, but we're doing everything we can." John nodded.

"Where can I touch him?"

"His right side is more burned than his left, so you can hold his left hand if you want." John stood and walked around to the other side of the bed. He peeled back the blanket to see Sherlock's left hand, lying lifeless on the sheet. John wrapped his hand around it and kissed the palm. The skin was ragged, but pink. Not burned.

"You can't leave me, Sherlock." John whispered fiercely into his lover's palm. "You know that. You can't leave me." Dr. Robertson coughed to get John's attention and he looked up from Sherlock's scraped palm.

"His left leg is broken and we think there was some organ failure, but we can't operate—"

"Because of the burns."

"Yes."

"So now we wait?"

"We wait."

"Will he wake up?"

"He shouldn't. He'd be in a lot of pain. He was awake for a few moments at the scene, but then he lapsed into unconsciousness. We're monitoring him and we're prepared to sedate him if he wakes up."

"So we wait."

"That's all we can do." John looked at Sherlock's lips and eyelids, the only parts of his face visible through the bandages. "For now."

"Yes. Do you think I could, I could have a minute alone? With my husband?"

"Of course. I'll be down at the nurse's station if you need anything." John nodded as the doctor walked out of the room. As soon as he was alone, looking into Sherlock's damaged face, the tears began to fall fast and think from his eyes.

"Why, Sherlock? Why do you always have to go around and make all these enemies? Why can't you be a normal person and just have friends?" He buried his face in the blankets. "I don't even know who I was. I was lost and if you go and leave me alone I'll just be lost again. Sherlock." He rested his cheek on the outstretched palm. "Sherlock, you can't die. Not first. Not without me. I won't let you."


	2. Chapter 2

John walked into the hospital over the next few days not looking much like himself. He wasn't wearing the crisply ironed slacks and button up shirts the other employees were used to, but jeans and t-shirts, thick sweaters and sweatshirts. His hair stuck up in odd places and his eyes were always rimmed in red.

He didn't walk through the doors very often because he didn't often leave Sherlock's side. The hospital room had become John's makeshift apartment, with clothes and books scattered on every horizontal surface. The nurses had put up a cot by the window that he would use if he could ever stop holding Sherlock's hand long enough to sleep. Mostly he just passed out with his forehead resting on the blanket, not being jarred awake until a doctor or nurse came to check on Sherlock.

"John." There was a hand shaking his shoulder, waking him from his most recent nap. Lestrade.

"Hey."

"You need to go home. Shower. Sleep." John sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes so they would open the rest of the way.

"No. I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere." The DI put his hand back on John's shoulder.

"John, you're a mess. I'll stay with him for a few hours. He'll be fine." John looked at Sherlock, who hadn't even blinked open his eyes in the days John had been sitting at his bedside. He nodded slowly.

"You're right. But I'll be back in a few hours, okay?"

"I don't doubt it." The two men shook hands and John put on his coat and walked out, glancing back as Lestrade sat in the vacated chair and started talking softly to his favorite consulting detective, quiet for once.

John walked out of the hospital and blinked in the sun, adjusting his coat. He did up the buttons and started walking toward 221b. The walk wasn't short, but he needed to breathe the clean air. Clean, but not sterilized like the air he'd been breathing the last few days. He walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He didn't want to see other people so he just stared at the pavement.

When he got to the apartment, he went up the stairs quickly, not wanting to be cornered by Mrs. Hudson. He opened the door and looked around the messy apartment. It was all Sherlock—the violin leaned haphazardly against the chair, the stack of old newspapers on the end table, the handgun under the couch, the body parts John knew were in the freezer.

He went into the bathroom and showered. He stood under the hot stream, letting the water scald his back and run down his skin. He braced himself against the wall, his exhaustion not allowing him to stand any longer.

Once he was clean and brushed his teeth and hair, he walked into his and Sherlock's bedroom, thinking he was going to finally sleep. He ran his fingers over the clothes Sherlock had left strewn all over the floor and picked up a pair of particularly worn pyjama bottoms. He pulled on the soft flannel and crawled into bed.

The room felt emptier and the bed felt lopsided, missing the long body lying on the other side. John tossed and turned and slept on and off, not being able to settle into the vacant bed. It had been years since he'd slept without one arm slung over Sherlock's middle, his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Eventually, John decided he had gotten as much sleep as he was going to and got up. He dressed himself in more comfortable clothes and got ready to set off for the hospital again. Lestrade had been sitting vigil long enough. But as he locked the apartment door, he heard a cough on the stairs behind him.

"Mr. Hudson."

"John." There was a pause as Mrs. Hudson took in the unkempt man standing before her. "John, how is he?" John rubbed his eyes and turned to fully face her.

"He's not great. He's been unconscious the whole time. They were able to tell that his organs were fine for the most part, no internal bleeding. That's good." John played with the keys in his hands, not wanting to look into Mrs. Hudson's eyes, knowing the pity he'd see there.

"Is he going to wake up?"

"I don't know. We're just waiting now." The older woman climbed the stairs and wrapped her thin arms around John. He rested his head on her shoulder and returned the hug. They separated and John smiled a little.

"You'll tell me if you need anything, right?"

"Of course. I should probably—"

"Get back to the hospital. Yes. Give him my best." John could sense her reluctance to speak his name, he felt the same way. Somehow saying it aloud would make it real in a way that seeing him lying vulnerable in that hospital bed had not. John nodded and turned to leave, ready to return to his post at Sherlock's side, as always.


	3. Chapter 3

The hospital was silent. The only noise was the heels of John's shoes tapping on the linoleum. He stood outside the door to Sherlock's room, watching Lestrade read the paper and thinking about not going back in. Someone else walked down the hall and stopped right next to John.

"How's the freak?" It was Sally.

"Please. Don't." John didn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. There was a moment of silence.

"I didn't— I didn't mean it like that." More silence. John knew Sally didn't mean to be cruel, but he couldn't take her sarcasm. Not now. But he did turn around to look her in the face. She wasn't crying, but there was a softness in her face he had never seen before. It softened his heart.

"I know." He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't— I haven't— I don't know what to do with myself. Without—" he indicated the door behind him.

"Without your freak—" John made a start as if to comment, but Sally cut him off. "Sorry! I mean, without Sherlock. I don't like him. You know that. He's crazy. You're not, though. Well, maybe a little for hanging around with that guy, but mostly all right." John laughed, first time in days.

"Mmhmm." He wiped his eyes; between exhaustion and sadness, he was always on the brink of tears these days. "I am a little crazy." They stood and looked through the window into the cold room with its cold inhabitants. "Are you here for Lestrade?"

"Yeah. We need him." Sally looked at her shoes. She hadn't come for the DI, but for the doctor. Since he had been around, Sherlock hadn't been as—well—_Sherlocky_. Less obnoxious and arrogant. She still called him "Freak" and mocked him at every turn, but not as much behind his back as she used to.

"Well, I'm back so he can go. Thanks for lending him to me for a while."

"Of course." John opened the door and Lestrade looked up from his paper.

"Ah, John. You're looking much better. Hello, Donovan."

"Thanks Lestrade. You had an, _uneventful_, visit I take it?"

"Yeah." Lestrade pursed his lips slightly as he stood and folded his paper. "I'm glad I could help." He shook John's hand while John turned to look again at Sherlock. Somehow, though the bandages hadn't been touched since he left, his husband looked just a little better for the time away. Maybe in his mind he had exaggerated the burns and bruises. That would be like John. Imagine worse than it was.

"Thanks." John nodded at Lestrade and Sally as they said goodbye and walked out the door, leaving him alone in the quiet room with his silent husband.

He sat down in his chair next to the bed and put his bag of books and other pastimes on the floor. He folded his hands in his lap and just looked, thinking about Lestrade and Sally and Molly—even Anderson. All the people who had known Sherlock before he had. He was jealous. Jealous of those days and years they had had with him that John had not. Jealous of the conversations and the jobs. Everything they had that he didn't.

"Why did it take so long to find you, Sherlock?" He shook his head and turned away, not ready to look into those closed eyes, that closed mouth. Those eyes that had watched him, had really seen him for the first time. Those eyes that knew everything: the things he wouldn't say. The things no one ever knew. That mouth he had kissed, he knew not how often. Long and slow in a cab after a case solved, hard and fast in their room after a row about milk—thinking about that just made John laugh. But the laughter dissolved when he thought about never kissing those lips again.

What if that happened? What if he didn't wake up? John thinks about running away, far away. Being in London had helped him forget Afghanistan. Sherlock had helped him forget Afghanistan. Maybe going far away would help him forget this?

How did you go about forgetting the best of yourself?

"I don't know what I was before you, Sherlock. I was a doctor, just like everyone else. I was an army man, just like all the others. With you I was—one of a kind. You, the consulting detective, and me, your doctor. Your blogger. Your friend. Your lover." John was realizing that every part of himself was defined in line with every part of his other, the closed-off man lying in the bed.

John stood and walked to the window, looking out at the sun and the people walking down the street. People who didn't define themselves by this man. People who weren't disintegrating in his absence.

He sat at a table and pulled a book out of his bag, reading to distract himself, reading to forget. Forget that the best of himself might never return.

A/N Thanks to everyone who's favorited this story; it means a lot to me! I'd love it if you would leave some more reviews so I can make sure I'm not the only one enjoying the experience!


	4. Chapter 4

John sat by Sherlock's bedside for days, remembering the earlier days they had spent together. He thought about the first time they had met, the first time he had seen Sherlock _deduce_ something, their first time at a crime scene. These were all precious memories, no matter how many times they had been repeated in the intervening years.

John remembered all the time he took to realize how dear that tall black frame was in the corner of his vision. He always thought Sherlock must have known from the start, but he fiercely denied it. Not like him though, denying something he knew.

There had been one night, back in 221b after a long and frustrating day, but a solved case, when Sherlock had collapsed on the couch next to John and flopped over, laying his head on John's lap. It was similar to the tantrums John had seen Sherlock throw in the past, but not quite the same. Probably because this time it wasn't John who had frustrated him, but who got to comfort him.

John ran his hand through the thick nest of dark curls, pulling knots apart with his fingers. Sherlock closed his eyes and nestled deeper into John's laugh. Sherlock had said something, made a joke. John had laughed, but he could no longer remember what had been said. They stayed on that couch for the next few hours, laughing and talking. Nothing had _happened_, per se, but there had been a subtle shift in their relationship. A comfort and a need that hadn't been there as much before.

Months passed and nothing happened. John wasn't sure enough of himself to make a move and Sherlock seemed too oblivious to these matters of humanity. John knew his feelings for Sherlock were no longer appropriate for a simple flat mate, even a good one, but he didn't really know what to do with them. He continued following Sherlock around, trying not to look too much like a lovesick puppy, but Sherlock noticed—he wasn't so widely sought for nothing.

John walked into the flat and set the shopping bags down on the table, moving to put the milk back in the fridge. As he was closing the door, he heard someone walking up behind him, softly, not wanting to be startling. Hands rested on his hips and long fingers wrapped around to press into his front, pulling him ever so slightly backward, into that tall black frame that had indeed become very dear.

Breath floated over John's ear as Sherlock leaned down and placed a soft kiss on John's shoulder. John remembered not being sure if he wanted to stiffen up and act confused or turn around and kiss Sherlock back. He knew the man could always spot an act, so he went for the latter option. He pulled away from Sherlock's grip on his hips for just a moment, turning and wrapping his arms around the taller man's neck. He tilted his head and pressed his mouth into Sherlock's, feeling the softness of his lips and the intensity of his passion, even in that first touch.

John also remembered their first fight. He didn't remember what it had been about, actually, but he remembered the shouting and he remembered storming out of the apartment, trying to think of the one thing he could do that would make Sherlock the maddest. In a moment, he knew. It was a simple choice really, he knew right where to go.

He walked through the door of the bar not really knowing what to expect, but if he had had expectations they certainly wouldn't have been anything like this. There were pulsing lights, that was a granted, but there were also two extremely tall drag queens with towering wigs and an almost naked man dancing seductively while wearing a—was that a Santa hat?

John shook his head and walked toward the bar.

"What can I get you, handsome?" The bartender had walked over and was now eyeing John with undisguised lust. _You don't have to hide anything in a place like this_, John thought.

"Just a whiskey—whatever you've got. Neat."

"Coming right up." And he walked away. John leaned against the bar and looked around the room. There were men all over, leaning against counters and sitting at tables, writhing their bodies together on the dance floor.

"I've never seen you in here before," A tall man in a suit sidled up next to the bar and put one hand on John's cheek. He was startled by the sudden contact, but wasn't this why he was here? To find someone else? To make Sherlock angry?

"I've never been here before." John responded and turned to accept his drink from the bartender.

"Open or closed?" The bartender said as John handed his card.

"Open, please." John was planning on staying here for a while, until Sherlock came and found him—which he knew he would.

"You're really cute," the man said as he leaned in a kissed John on the mouth. This was a little too much for John, who stumbled back and knocked his hip into the counter. "Jumpy!" and he laughed. "well, if you decide you want to dance, I'll be over there," He indicated a group of couches in the far corner of the room. John shot his whiskey in one go.

"Now," John said as he grabbed the man's hand and pulled him into the center of the pulsing crowd. Their bodies pressed together and John could feel the man's hips thrusting against him. It was very different, he remembered thinking, from feeling Sherlock against him. This man was drunk and responding only to generations of evolved sexual desire. Sherlock was always in control, every movement calculated.

But John pushed Sherlock out of his mind and wrapped his arms around the new man's waist, pulling him in, kissing him, feeling his hands on his ass, breathing him in and pushing Sherlock out.

The night went on and men kept buying John drinks—his blond hair, blue eyes, and easy smile made him quite the target—and pulling him onto the dance floor. He could feel himself slipping away, getting lost in the haze of booze, music, and men. He was kissed, touched, even bitten once judging by the marks of the next day.

He had no idea what time it was when he felt a hand on his shoulder. A steady and sure hand with long fingers. A familiar touch. Sherlock pushed away the short, dark haired man John had been dancing with for the moment, wrapped his hand around John's arm and lead him over to the bar.

"Does this man have a card over here?" He asked the bartender.

"Yes."

"Close it." The bartender turned to the register, closed out the tab, Sherlock signed the receipt, and then dragged John out onto the pavement. John was still moving back and forth to the music when Sherlock grabbed both his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

"What the hell were you trying to do? Prove a point? Get yourself killed?" John looked side to side and took a few minutes to think, collect his alcohol-soaked thoughts.

"Make you mad." He smiled in his victory. "Worked."

"Yes. It did. I'm mad. We're going home." Sherlock hailed a cab and they rode back to Baker Street in silence. Sherlock put John into their bed—they had dropped the pretense of separate rooms by this point—and sat in a chair in the corner, watching John sleep, guarding against vomit choking his idiotic lover.

John remembered the next morning being the worst hang over he'd ever had. Pounding head and body smelling like dirt, sex, and smoke. He got up and went into the bathroom for a shower. When he walked into the kitchen, Sherlock was already sitting at the table with a cup of coffee waiting for John.

"Thanks for finding me last night."

"You knew I would. You wouldn't have gone otherwise." John nodded.

"True. And I wanted you to be mad."

"I was. And I was wrong. But now—" Sherlock stood and walked to the other side of the room. "Now I can't stop thinking about you at that _club_" he spoke the word with such disdain "last night. All those other men. I'm supposed to be the one that touches you, John." He had walked back over and knelt down in front of John, putting his hand on his cheek like the first man in the bar last night. John hung his head.

"I know." He really was sorry. By the time he started to realize what he was doing, he was to drunk to stop any of it. "I wanted to be with you, but I was so mad at you!"

"I know. But god, John. Don't ever do that again." He had leaned forward and pressed his mouth against John's. Thankfully he had brushed his teeth so Sherlock couldn't taste all the others who had been there last night. Their lips pressed hard together and john put down his coffee cup and curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

"Never, never, never." He spoke between kissed placed on Sherlock's cheeks, nose, eyes, lips. And he meant it. "You are the only one I want to touch me, Sherlock." Sherlock put his head on John's lap. He was exhausted from looking for John all night. He had been to every gay bar or club within a reasonable range from their apartment, he knew John would have known exactly how to anger him.

Now, John thought, after so much time has passed, no one else has touched me. Not like Sherlock, not since Sherlock. Not since that night. How was he supposed to live without those long, thin fingers wrapped through his, those soft lips pressed against his. He looked at the prostrate Sherlock and prayed that soon he would touch John again.


	5. Chapter 5

Weeks passed and John sat by Sherlock, holding his hand, telling him stories, wishing and prayer harder than he ever had before. He prayed for healing and for forgetting or for a quick death. He prayed for the chance to say goodbye. He prayed to never say goodbye.

John had to go back to work because he couldn't take staring at his lifeless love for hours on end. Sarah or Molly or Lestrade, sometimes even Mycroft, would come and sit with Sherlock while John was at work, but sometimes they left him alone. No one could afford to be gone from work for days and weeks on end. Not even John.

_At least I work in the hospital_, John thought as he was walking out of Sherlock's room. He had made a habit of eating his lunch on Sherlock's bedside table, talking to him about the goings on outside the four walls of this room.

Eventually, the hope of Sherlock ever waking up was fading away. People just didn't wake up from comas this long. But this was Sherlock and if anyone could live, it would be him. At least that's what John told himself.

But he kept working, John did. And the doctors cared for Sherlock. Lestrade hadn't found anyone else to help with cases, no one found anyone to help because that would be admitting a defeat, something Sherlock would never allow.

Now, John was sitting on the edge of the empty hospital bed with his folded hands between his knees. Tears were rolling down his face. He stood and turned to pull up the sheets. He knew they'd be taken off and washed, but he couldn't leave it unmade. It felt like a closing finally coming to a tragic film.

As he straightened the top fold, he felt a hand on his shoulder and he paused before turning around and looking into the deep and beautiful eyes he thought he might never see into again. Sherlock leaned down and took up the hand that was straightening the bedclothes. He raised it to his lips and kissed John's fingers.

"You can leave it, John." The doctor turned his body to face his husband. His head hung to the ground and Sherlock put a finger under his chin and lifted it, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "It's over. We're going home."

"I just—I can't believe you're here." John had almost given up hope and then the heart rate changed. Sherlock's eyes blinked open. He gasped a breath. The doctors rushed in. There had been tests and nutrition and lots of talking and explaining and even some physical therapy. He wasn't healed—he probably never would be—but he was alive. He was here.

Now, standing in front of John, raised for a moment from the wheelchair he'd be imprisoned in for a while, he seemed like a mangled ghost of his former self. As he lowered his body back down, John wiped a tear from his own cheek.

"So much sadness." Sherlock said. "I wish I could take it away."

John pushed the chair down the hallway toward the elevator. He didn't think he'd believe Sherlock was alive until he had pushed him out the front doors of the hospital.

He walked down the sidewalk and Sherlock threw his head back, the sun shining on his face, a sun he'd never much appreciated before. John looked down into the tired but glowing face, enraptured, amazed as he had been the first time they had met. Amazed that such a man could exist, exist for him.

He kissed him again, slowing the wheelchair so as to avoid crashing into anyone. A tear dropped onto a bandage on Sherlock's face and John almost laughed.

"There's no goodbye here, John. Not now."

* * *

><p>AN And that's the end, folks! I wanted to give you a happy ending; I don't know if I could kill off Sherlock. I hope you enjoyed it! It's really my first shot at fan fiction, so I'd love any advice from you more seasoned writers out there! I've got some good ideas for my next fic so I hope you'll all stick around!


End file.
